


The Potato War

by rednow



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Minecraft Village AU, Angst, Brotherly Bonding, Character Study, Eventual Happy Ending, Familial Relationships, Farmer Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Gen, Hurt, Insecurity, Not a ship fic, Orphans, Platonic Relationships, Potatoes, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Discovery, Self-Doubt, Self-Hatred, Sexuality Crisis, Sleepy Bois Inc as Family, Soul-Searching, Technoblade Hears Voices (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, Worldbuilding, anger issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:55:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28967934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rednow/pseuds/rednow
Summary: “Being me is emptier,” he decides.“Disgusting,” the voices tell him.Or, welcome. I am retelling Technoblade’s Great Potato War.“It’s a lonely thing protecting a breakable heart.”― ATTICUS
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade & im_a_squid_kid, Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & Tommyinnit & Wilbur Soot (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & Wilbur Soot (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 27
Kudos: 171





	1. 500 million potatoes still feel inadequate

**Author's Note:**

> helloo! welcome to my first major work. quite some while ago, my brain thought "fuck yeah, let's give techno issues and make him farm potatoes again" and i was like why not, and then this happened.
> 
> this fic will progressively get darker and darker, until we see the light again. i hope to meet you on the other side :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Technoblade farms potatoes and all is (not) okay. Or the chapter that I shall use to set up my world, thank you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wooo boy, and so it begins. i hope you enjoy the ride. idk what this fic will make of me once i finish it, but one chapter at a time baby, one chapter at a time

Technoblade feels… like an accident.

The scarlet sun breathes its last in a horizon framed by dark spruce on either side. Night brings only depletion— first, to the landscape, of light; and then to its keen observer, of energy.

Technoblade stands in the heart of his farmland. If one were to take his spot and race their eyes to the very limits, they would still only see potatoes.

Plodding hoarsely, he drags an iron hoe behind him on the soil. Fatigue seeps in with every step and he sits on a familiar bench near the fence gate.

Techno tightens the band securing his hair and buries his head in his hands, mulishly dismissing the blood-red sun which blazes the sky in burgundy. He refuses to acknowledge another sunset, having lost count of the recurring many he witnessed sitting on that oak bench.

 _Fuck. This. Shit_ , the voices in his head sibilate, waking up in his taciturnity.

It wasn’t always this way. Farming wasn’t what he’d always done. He was a _hunter_ , for fuck’s sake.

Things changed with the Great Potato War. Squid Kid, the son of one of the landholders who funded their village, challenged him to it.  
  
But they were _joking_. Weren’t they? They were. They were almost friends. Techno often finds himself clinging to the unknown.  
  
~  
  
“Hey Techno! Technoblade, hello, there you are!” a piping voice calls from behind.

Techno smiles a little to himself. He knows who that is, he needn’t turn. “What is it, kid,” he monotones.

The voices brighten too, and Techno distinguishes _‘AYO IT’S HIM!’_ and _‘total simp behavior’_ from the crowd. _There are two kinds of people in this world_ , he thinks.

“ _Squid_ Kid,” the boy corrects him, tutting slightly. He walks inside the warehouse to where the tall boy works and swings an arm around Techno’s shoulders.

“How’s the sword coming along?”  
  
Techno shoulders stiffen but he’s warm and so he doesn’t shrug Squid’s arm off. “It’s comin' along,” he says nonchalantly.  
  
His skilled hands stay working deftly on the whetstone, having done this many times by now. One hand on the sword hilt, other on the middle of the flat side of the blade, but cautious to keep all fingers away from the sharp end. Drag down the sword until its tip runs off the stone’s edge, then repeat.  
  
Technoblade draws the blade down the harsh stone in a wide, zigzag manner, relishing the way the rugged edge of the sword crushes to fine powder. _Only the fittest survive._  
  
Squid watches, seemingly considering his work. When he hums out his acknowledgement, Techno’s heart swells. He’s proud of it too.  
  
“You know what Wilbur’s up to right now?” Squid says conversationally, pushing sleeves up his forearms.  
  
“No. What?”  
  
“He’s in the tavern with the rest. Drunk. He’s singing something about you being obsessed with your blade.”  
  
Techno quirks a brow. Squid obliges, smirking a little.  
  
“Techno and his blade  
What a loony, I’m afraid  
Polishing, grinding, is all he does  
For no one would take him to a masquerade.”  
  
Squid finishes to the tune of Incy Wincy Spider.  
  
Techno snorts loudly, and the voices do too, and Techno likes when they agree. He shakes his head. “Stupid,” he announces, hands never ceasing to work. “Leave it to Wil to embarrass himself tryin' to embarrass me.”  
  
_Dumbbur_ , the voices cackle. He smiles.  
  
Squid watches his sword run off the edge. “And he’s wrong too,” he points out.  
  
“How?”  
  
“I’d take you to one anyday.” Squid says casually.  
  
There’s a beat.  
  
One in which Techno’s hands forget how to work, and the voices abandon ship leaving him by himself to uncover the covert message.  
  
He bites the inside of his cheek hard. “Uhm- what.” He says disbelievingly and gives Squid a look.  
  
Squid purses his lips, like he’s trying to not laugh at Techno’s flusterment. His ocean-blue eyes sparkle with mirth and Techno— Techno wishes to _leave_.  
  
“Hm?” Squid hums, “what, must I serenade you to the masquerade now?” He laughs dryly at his rhyming skills.  
  
_Ah._  
  
Techno’s stomach drops. His hands hesitate awkwardly on the cool hilt, eyes wandering the space nervously, suddenly aware of how empty the warehouse is.  
  
“Don’t be weird,” he mutters and then grimaces at how it comes out laced with thorned sharpness.  
  
Squid groans in good humor. “Ugh, what a killjoy.” He tips his head at him and smiles. Techno deadpans back sourly.  
  
“Fuck you,” Squid laughs and hits his shoulder playfully, wrapping his arm around him again.  
  
The hilt of the sword feels like plastic beneath his palm. Techno drags it on the stone. _Being me is emptier_ , he decides.  
  
_Disgusting_ , the voices tell him.  
  
“Anyway,” Squid continues, “I’m coming with you on the next hunt, I have to show you my new machete, you’re going to freak out . . .”  
  
The conversation is stirred out of foreign territory and Techno’s unease fades although his brows pinch together. He knows Squid's only motive is to get a laugh out of him. It doesn’t need to be like this.  
  
His skin underneath the amethyst armor where Squid’s friendly arm rests, burns embers. But whether the warmth is a glowing comfort or a worrisome agony, Technoblade doesn’t know.

_ ~  _

Techno blinks away the past from where he sits on the bench. 

Squid’s laugh rings in his head. Something sharp and hot pricks his chest, fixated on searing through. He ignores it.

Far behind, the village bustles proudly in finishing the day’s work and to both his distant sides, the spruce wood rustles. Mobs. Technoblade heaves to get up. He’s not afraid of them, but he really doesn’t want to fight tonight.

He grabs the hoe busy camouflaging on the moist land and moves. 

Closing the worn birch gate marks the end of another long day of farming. They pass by quicker, Techno feels; nights are longer. When farming is no longer his distraction, he is left alone with his thoughts and the voices.

He hates them. 

But it doesn’t matter. 

Techno nears the outskirts of the village, hands wavering at the gate. He sighs and greets himself in. The clang of the metal makes him cringe, the reverb shrill in his ear as he closes it.

Ahead are shops overhung with blobs of light, housing merchandise inside shimmering glass. 

Traders shout, yelling discount prices and best buys, and the space buzzes in an excited din. The cold winter air smells delectably of cooked mutton-chops and carries the wisp of warm beetroot soup to where Technoblade stands near the gate. 

The market is alive tonight. 

_ Sale night? Today? _ Techno wonders. It doesn’t mean anything to him but he finds comfort in the faceless crowd, grateful to be able to blend in. 

His peace doesn’t last long.

He passes Clarence’s shop trading emeralds for cheap paper and banners for emeralds.  _ Cartographers' trades are the worst, _ he reminds himself. He won’t visit that place for any stack of netherite. 

He passes Louis’s makeshift shack trading emeralds for rabbit hide. Techno hums in agreement. A better bang for the buck. He likes the leatherworker, they’ve exchanged talk during community meetings. Techno once traded him his entire chest of scutes to get the strongest armor for his horse, Carl.

Carl’s gone now. He tries to not think about that.

He is just about to cross the community run flower shop when someone hails him from a bit ahead.

“Technoblade! Ahoy! Come see some potions.” 

Techno’s eyes gleam. The potions shop is the only one he ever frequents. 

The man who’d hailed him was a slim built and clever villager. Francis. The village liked calling him Francis the witch, for his choice of livelihood and his peculiarly crooked nose. Techno always thought the village was dumb.

“Another one of those?” he asks as Techno enters, crouching to avoid banging himself on the low built doorway (which, like other incredible but useless things, lacked a door). 

The shop itself is tiny, with most of its open ground covered by brewing stands busy at work. Behind a counter where Francis stands, an overhanging shelf carries bottles of colourful potions, each willing to grant marvelous abilities to their drinker.

“Five of those, please.” Techno says.

Francis nods, turning away to his stocked shelf. He makes no effort to make conversation, knowing Techno’s dislike for small talk.

Technoblade had a strange relationship when it came to potions. He'd gone through stacks of invis potions when he was a kid and wanted to skip school. In the recent past, he’d stocked up on healing potions prior to leaving for a hunt; worried more for his younger brothers—Tommy and Wilbur—who’d be left to fend for themselves, than for himself.

Lately however, the potions he needed the most turned out to be regen potions.

God, he was tired of the goons.

Squid truly didn’t care anymore, did he?

“Add a sleeping draught too.” Techno says as an afterthought.

~

Techno reaches his cabin, slipping quickly inside and latching the door behind him. He leans against the doorway for a second, grateful for the stability it gives.

Home feels barely like it. It should bother him more but Techno had long ago made peace with being okay with scraps.

Tommy and Wilbur are already asleep in their rooms, he guesses, pausing in the central kitchen room for water. He takes a glass with him to the doorframe, from where he can faintly make out Wilbur’s outline in his bed through the door.

Wilbur still likes sleeping with his door open, finding comfort in the dull light from the hallway slicing his bedsheets in bright shards. Techno’s heart beats dully. 

When they were younger, Techno thirteen and Wilbur only ten, some nights Wilbur would peek into his room and quietly slip next to him, trusting him to be asleep. Techno, being one to never fall asleep early, was always awake when Wil did so, but he pretended all the same to save his brother from explanation.

Mornings would be waking up finding Wilbur gone, but the imprint of his brother's face on his pillow and his door carefully left ajar.

To the right of Wilbur’s room, is a shut door. Tommy’s. 

Techno remembers the fights they’d had over it, Tommy adamant on keeping his privacy even as a small _child_ , while Techno stubborn on making him keep his door open, so he could know Tommy was sleeping fine. Tommy always got his way at the end, but Techno liked to think he slept just a speck better letting Tommy know he was cared for.

Techno hasn't talked to them much in recent times, leaving to farm first and returning home last. 

He drains his glass and leaves it in the sink.

The armour he removes falls orderlessly on the floor and Techno sits on his cold bed in the darkness of his room.

Day 746 of farming dwindles to an end. 

His hands suddenly clutch the sheets on his side in helpless want and hot need. 

The irrational thought of wanting someone next to him flickers through his mind.

_ Disgusting, _ the voices whisper lowly to him. He sighs.

~

“Wow. Aren’t you a complete bozo.” 

A boy looks down on him, one hand on hip. Dark, ruffled hair falls over his forehead and past his ears, and he lugs a leathered book to one side.

Technoblade remembers when they met.

“Shut up.” Techno mumbles from the floor. There are books scattered all around him and the feet of the staircase where he has fallen down.

He has fallen down on his leg. Still flopped that way—right foot crushed by the weight of his entire body, left foot sprawled out—Techno feels utterly ridiculous. 

“Who are you?” he asks, feeling self conscious. 

The boy looks at him curiously. “Give me your hand,” he says, offering the one from his hip.

Great. He feels self conscious _ and  _ stupid now. 

“I can do it myself.”

“Oh, really.” The boy rolls his eyes at him. “Try it then.” 

Techno curses his utter imbecility at having fallen down carrying books. They’re not even his, for crying out loud, they’re _Wilbur’s_. He yelps loudly when he lifts himself off the bruised leg. Pain floods in, instant and blinding, and his hand slips off the wall as pure white flashes his eyes. 

Down again. He should just camp here on the floor all evening.

He hates everything. Still painfully aware of the boy’s eyes on him, he tries again, resorting to using the wall’s support wholly to avoid using his crushed foot. This time, thankfully, he makes it all the way up before leaning heavily against the wall, spent by the effort.

“Good. Now try to walk.” 

Techno shuts his eyes, annoyed and exhausted. A headache has started to build at his temples, mimicking the way his right foot throbs uselessly.

“Go away,” Techno says.

The boy sighs at him.

“Try to walk, you idiot. That is most likely a fracture, we need to make sure.” 

“Go  _ away,”_ Techno repeats louder. He glares at him.

__

The boy glares right back. “This dude has a mental illness,” he says in an undertone.

__

“I heard that, asshole.” 

__

Techno doesn’t believe there exists someone more annoying than Tommy.

__

“Squid Kid.” The boy removes his gaze, stuffing a hand into his pocket. 

__

“What?” Techno feels exasperated. The boy’s eyes—bright blue, Techno’s brain unhelpfully points out—are back on him.

__

“I’m called _Squid_ , not asshole.”

__

Techno stares at him for a full second before bursting out laughing. “You’re kidding me.” The boy—Squid—scowls. “That’s really your name?”

__

“Shut up, bozo, let me help you.”

__

“Technoblade. And no. Why are you so adamant on helping me?”

__

“Because I’m sorry for your lamer name.” 

__

Techno’s turn to scowl. The boy grins at him.

__

~

__

Techno jolts up from his bed, waking up in terror. He jumps out and paces to the open window. Anxiety jags his neck, sharp stabs of it hitting him in breaks. He snaps his head sideways, running a hand through his long hair to ease out the discomfort. 

__

_Stop haunting me. Even my dreams?_ Techno feels miserable. 

__

Outside, a full moon shines down on the village. Hostile mobs roam freely in the unlit parts, hunting down docile critters.

__

Techno knows how that episode went.

__

He was fifteen, Squid just about to turn that number. He would later learn that Squid was the landlord’s son. 

__

He remembered being invited to the grand birthday function, where Squid’s father would grant 64 wheat to every adult in celebration. 

__

They would then establish a routine of spending every afternoon together. They would hang near the village well, laughing freely. Squid would animate his day to him, Techno humming most of his replies. It was free, being this way. It was only when he’d catch himself staring at his friend’s crystal crisp blue eyes for too long, that unexplainable shame would surge him, and he would hurriedly turn away.

__

Outside, a skeleton attacked a baby zombie. Techno frowned.

__

Of course he knew how that episode went.

__

It would end in a fracture, Squid smirking because he was right. Squid would guide him all the way back home, one arm around his back and the other gripping his hand hard for extra support. 

__

He would spend a month in a cast and Squid would visit him everyday. He’d snort when Techno made morbid jokes, sympathise when Techno confessed how much not being able to hunt sucked and nick away strands of his pink hair behind his ear before Techno himself could— 

__

Did he need to hallucinate about it too?

__

That was five years ago. He was twenty now, Squid was nineteen. Squid’s father didn’t host his son’s birthday celebrations anymore, Squid did it himself. They evolved to be drunk,  _ loud  _ parties, the kind Techno disliked the most.

__

Techno hadn’t been to one in two years.

__

He strides back to his bedside table and grabs the sleeping draught he’d placed earlier.

__

_ Look what you’ve turned me into.  _ He finds himself angry at someone who’s not even near. 

__

Uncorks the bottle: _Why would you do this to me?_ His lip curls. 

__

He chugs, the voices in his head chanting and screaming. 

__

_ Fuck you,  _ he seethes.  _ Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.  _ He empties the whole bottle and slams it down on the table. The loud noise makes him wince, his anger suddenly vanishing as quickly as it had arrived. 

__

He lies back down on his bed and pulls the duvet up to the bridge of his nose. 

__

_ Empty. _

__

__

__

He presses his lips and closes his eyes firmly, feeling like nothing. 

__

__

__

The potion begins to work. His exhaustion overwhelms him, the eyebags beneath in eyes pronounced stiffly in the silent moonlight that slivers into his stark room. 

__

__

__

Memory warps and the scene shifts. He is strolling on the cliff of consciousness now, dark shadows lurking far below. When he looks straight ahead, he's unable to make out anything, for a thick fog covers all that he desires to see.

__

__

__

There’s just two to choose from. The aimless stroll on the cliff, or the shadows beneath. 

__

__

__

And when sleep tiptoes into his room to drift him away, with tender promises of carrying his woes for him till the sun dawns, Techno makes up his mind. Squid has moved on.

__

__

__

The shadows below call out for him, desperate and needy.

__

__

__

One careless heroic step forward and Technoblade falls into the dark unknown. 

__

__

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we made it to the end (for now) :)
> 
> just so you know, this work will have insanely slow updates. i really want this fic to be good, so i'm spending a LOT of time planning everything out. every single hint that i drop needs to be resolved, and since i haven't tried longer works like this before, it's going to take a while. 
> 
> thank you for reading! <3 leave a comment because god do i get instant serotonin when i see something new in my inbox


	2. The Swiss Chalet and the Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Technoblade does what he had always done best: running away.

The night Technoblade ran away from his house was a night he’d probably have forgotten by now, had it, unfortunately (or, considering his circumstances, perhaps fortunately), not been the day he had run away.

A crisp all-seeing full moon set the scene. The bubblegum-pink head of a twelve-year-old boy popped out from the first floor of an Swiss chalet, and then quickly dipped back inside. 

If you were the enthusiastic type and chose to eagerly join him at the windowsill—which, may I be kind enough to warn you, is a foolish idea, since Techno would drive a sword through your chest for being in his room quicker than you could spell out ANARCHY—you’d observe to your life’s greatest dismay, that the small alpine town that lay outside wasn’t special at all. In fact, there was nothing to see, and you’d perhaps stop reading here, throw your phone away and spread the word near and far that the narrator was the biggest nerd you’d ever seen. 

But, for this is Technoblade’s story, the scene outside turned out to be exactly what he had wanted for well over a year now. And so, that is where we will start.

On the first floor of that curious chalet, Technoblade wrapped his right arm across himself. It was _cold_ outside, bitteringly so, and he tried his best to rub warmth into his left shoulder blade, shivering uncomfortably. 

Outside, houses with sloping roofs stood separated in boring equal spaces, a singular spruce tree being the divider between each pair. 

The moment was here. Technoblade had thought about doing this for years, and now, finally, the moment was here. 

He tiptoed away silently from his window, towards the side of his bed. Crouching down to the floor, he rigged up a spruce plank and gripped one strap of a knapsack which was nearly bursting at the seams. Pulling it up with him, he went to pick up two bits of parchments from his desk. They were letters to his mom and dad.

One was folded carefully, neatly sealed with a bit of tape. The other was a crumbled bit of paper, which Techno shoved into the pocket of his hoodie.

Only one made the cut.

Twelve year old Technoblade paused, sealed letter in hand, rucksack hanging limply to his side. Revolving around slowly, he gave everything one last hard stare. A bleak bed in front of him, a bleak desk to his side.

Moonlight filtered into through the open window. The moon was the only source of light in this otherwise dark room, painting the side of his bed, desk and bedside table in knife-cut silver strands. Techno scrunched his nose up in distaste. The wise moon did nothing but reveal the utter bleakness of the room further.

He turned away. There was nothing for him here.

Everything gathered, he took steady footsteps and closed his door softly behind him. One step at a time, he made it down the staircase, pausing every few seconds to bypass even the faintest bit of noise that might ring out into the still night if he were careless. 

He placed the letter at the foot of the staircase. 

It would eventually be discovered and then read by the people it was addressed to the next morning. Techno hoped to be far away by that time.

The keys to the chalet hung on a hook next to the door. 

Techno unlocked the front door, twisting open the doorknob, fumbling in his tracks for half a second. This was all so easy, Techno thought. Why hadn't he done it earlier?

And although it’d been a rhetoric thought, Technoblade knew the answer.

Chill wind hit his face and chest once again, but this time, Techno didn’t even flinch. He hyped himself up. It was time to be brave, he told himself. The door clicked shut and the keys slid inside through the slit at the bottom.

Techno stepped onto the front porch of a house he had never called his own. He breathed in the cold alpine air. The night was silent, and the road outside sloped downhill. 

And just like that, with just a bag on his shoulder, he set out. 

What started as a walk, turned into a jog; and by the time he was five houses away, he was full on sprinting.

Twelve year old Techno never looked back to bid the chalet goodbye.

And that marked the end of a chapter.

~

Chest heaving and breath racing, Techno found himself running for his life. He turned the corner, slipping into an alley and ran harder, knapsack clutched behind on one shoulder, losing every sense of direction. 

He kept switching up his routes, every blind turn that he took was a better friend than what was behind. He dashed, turned again, and again, and again, until he was surer of being closer to hell than anywhere else.

Another turn, and he haltered inside the crook of a long abandoned artique shop, his heart in chest. He was safe, he told himself. He was too far in to be found now. 

He was _safe._

He dragged a sleeve roughly across his forehead to wipe off sweat and pulled out the spare letter from the pocket of his hoodie: 

> _Dear_ ~~_procreators_~~ _biological parents,_
> 
> _I am going away._
> 
> _I am sorry._
> 
> _Actually, I’m not._
> 
> _I don’t think I need to explain my reasons, I am sure I have expressed my disdain for your parenting enough._
> 
> _I choose to be an orphan. All I ask from you now is that you do not come to look for me, for I am no longer yours._
> 
> _Signed,_
> 
> _Technoblade_

The well-written version of this runaway letter had been left at the feet of the staircase back in the chalet where he had grown up. The future was only possibilities, wasn’t it? 

Technoblade was safe. 

He swallowed, his heart rate still not back to normal.

It was all going to be okay. _He was safe._

He kept repeating, trying to temper down his beating heart.

~

It took Technoblade the mere duration of one day, five hours and fifty-seven minutes to realize that _nothing_ was fucking okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long time no see, huh? 
> 
> techno's so fucked lmao, and it's only going to get worse. i'm having the time of my life giving trauma to my characters whoops
> 
> SELLOUT TIME BABEY!!! leave a kudos/comment if you enjoyed because ao3 is my only source of serotonin. also USER SUB TO ME MAN i'm a oneshots person i need to feed my pet snaggletooth fish
> 
> ps, [my twitter](https://twitter.com/REDN0W_) for more bullshit


End file.
